The Reckoning by Sharon Kay Penman
“Let’s just say I find it more believable than I once did. His behavior makes more sense, I’ll admit, if viewed in that light. He’d never be able to say it straight out, of course, not Davydd. I think I can even understand—a little—his anger. Forgiveness always came so easily to him, Goronwy, too easily…”
Goronwy nodded. “But I do believe, my lord, that his regrets are real enough.”
“Mayhap they are,” Llewelyn conceded. “I suppose I’d like to think so…”
“But you cannot forgive him?”
Llewelyn took his time in answering. “When I was warned that Davydd had been implicated in Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s treachery, I summoned him to Rhuddlan Castle to defend himself. You were there, were you not, Goronwy? Davydd denied all, rather persuasively, too, although we did not yet know even half of the plot. And once we were alone, he made an accusation that I found very troubling. He wanted to know if I’d have suspected Tudur or Einion. I had to say no, and I realized only then how I’d wronged him, how quick I’d been to believe the worst of him…”
Goronwy sucked in his breath. “And all the while, he was lying to you, all the while he was Cain,” he said, and Llewelyn’s eyes met his own.
“Just so,” he said softly. “So you see, Goronwy, I cannot give Davydd what he wants, what I even want myself sometimes. For what is forgiveness worth without trust?”
The Abbot’s concern about the rain proved unwarranted. After a spectacular dawn, one that too briefly gilded the sea and estuary in rich shades of red, copper, and then a shimmering, spangled gold, Llewelyn and his men rode south under a summer-blue sky. The sun soon dried the road, and as Llewelyn traveled fast even in inclement weather, they reached the Lledr Valley well before dusk.
They were not yet in sight of Dolwyddelan when they saw riders up ahead. As they drew nearer, Llewelyn recognized his niece and Hugh de Whitton. He was not surprised to see them together, for they’d developed a fast friendship in the months since he’d wed Ellen at Worcester. Llewelyn had been rather dubious at first of Caitlin’s attachment to the young Englishman. He still thought of her as a child more often than not, and he’d been very willing to indulge her when she entreated him to put off finding her a husband; he saw no reason not to wait until she was ready, had no intention of forcing her to wed against her will. But nonetheless, she was fifteen now, of marriageable age, and it was only after he’d had a long and candid talk with Hugh that he’d felt reassured, having satisfied himself that Hugh’s devotion to Caitlin was honorable, protective, and quite brotherly.
Caitlin and Hugh were in high spirits, and greeted Llewelyn with exuberance, eager to confide their mission. They were both talking at once, and there was some confusion before Llewelyn learned that one of his huntsmen had found a remarkable fawn, white as snow with eyes as red as garnets. “I know it sounds fanciful, Uncle Llewelyn, but Phylip swears it is so. We are on our way now to his house, for Phylip says he means to keep it as a pet, that people will likely pay to see it!”
“Tell Phylip I’d be interested in seeing this wondrous beast myself.” Llewelyn waved them on, and within moments they were out of sight, disappearing around a sharp bend in the road. Llewelyn laughed and urged his stallion forward, on toward the castle where his wife awaited him.
As always, Llewelyn’s arrival created considerable excitement, people hastening out of the hall, kitchen, and stables to welcome their Prince home. But Ellen was not among them, and that surprised Llewelyn somewhat, for he and Ellen had been playing a newlyweds’ game, in which he sought to reach their bedchamber and catch her unawares, a game he rarely won, for she was almost always alerted by the inevitable commotion heralding his return. This time, though, she did not appear, and he mounted the steps, crossed the drawbridge linking the forebuilding to the keep, and entered his bedchamber, where he discovered that he’d won by default, for Ellen was nowhere in sight.
Juliana jumped to her feet, looking oddly flustered. “My lord! We did not expect you back for another day or two!”
Llewelyn was fending off the enthused welcome of his favorite greyhound. “Nia, down! I missed Ellen,” he said with a smile. “Where is she?”
Seeing him glance toward the corner privy, Juliana reluctantly shook her head. “She…she is not here, my lord. She took Ivory out for a ride.”
“Not by herself?” Llewelyn frowned, for this had been a source of contention between them. While he understood that a woman imprisoned for nigh on three years would revel in her newfound freedom, he did not want Ellen wandering about on her own, for he was finding that he worried more about her safety in a mountain meadow than ever he had about his own safety in the midst of a battle.
“I know she promised you not to venture out without an escort,” Juliana said hastily. “But she was very distraught, needed to be alone for a time.”
“Distraught?” But there was no need to ask why; he knew. “Her flux came, after all,” he said, and felt a dulled throb of disappointment when Juliana nodded. He’d refused to let himself hope too much, for he’d known that a week’s delay was not proof of pregnancy. But Ellen had not been as realistic, and he could imagine all too well the depths now of her despair.
“She was so sure,” Juliana said miserably. “I could not convince her that it was much too early to hope. She said she’d never been overdue this long, a fortnight yesterday, that it had to mean she was pregnant. And then this morn, when her flux came…” Her voice trailed off. “She so wants to give you a son, my lord.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know…”
It was easy enough for Llewelyn to guess where Ellen had gone. It was not just the sylvan setting of Rhaeadr Ewynnol that drew her so often to the white-water cauldron; the waterfall had become a romantic shrine from the moment she learned it had been a favorite trysting place for Joanna and her Llewelyn. Reining in his stallion beside Ellen’s tethered white mare, Llewelyn dismounted swiftly. Crossing the clearing, he found his wife standing at the cliff’s edge. She was wrapped in a wool mantle of bright scarlet, and patches of crimson burned into her cheeks, too, as she turned, saw him step from the forest shadows into the sunlight.
“Llewelyn!” But there was no gladness in her voice. Nor did she move toward him. “How did you find me?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” she said, sounding as if nothing mattered, not anymore. “I am sorry you came back early, for I needed more time ere I’d be ready to face you. I’ve failed you, Llewelyn. Once again I’ve failed you.”
“No, Ellen, that is not so.”
“But I did! You do not know—”
“I do. I spoke to Juliana, cariad.”
“Then…then how can you say I’ve not failed you? You need a son, a son I may not be able to give you. That is why you married me, to get an heir. Can you deny it?”
“No,” he said slowly, “I’ll not deny it. When Davydd betrayed me, I lost more than my brother, I lost my heir. I had no choice but to wed as quickly as I could, to try to sire a son. But that was nigh on five years and three unforeseen happenings ago. My life has changed since then, in ways I’d not anticipated.”
“ ‘Three unforeseen happenings,’” she echoed. “I do not understand.”
He closed the space between them, took her hand, and drew her toward the shelter of a vast and ancient oak. “When Davydd fled to England, I did not expect to look upon him again in this life. Still less did I expect that the pull of the past would prove so strong for us both. I am not saying we have now reconciled, but we seem to have contrived an uneasy truce, and that unlikely development is what gives such significance to the second occurrence—the birth of Davydd’s son, my nephew and namesake, and if need be, my heir.” He smiled faintly. “I daresay Davydd would be sorely vexed if he was passed over in favor of his little lad, but that would be his problem, not mine.”
“I’d not thought of your nephew as a potential heir,” Ellen admitted, “just as painful proof that Elizabeth could give Davydd what
“And each month you await the coming of your flux like a condemned prisoner awaiting the axe, and when it does come… Ellen, you cannot keep tormenting yourself like this. It serves for naught, cariad. You have to accept whatever happens, whatever the Almighty wills, for both our sakes.”
“Can you accept that, Llewelyn? Can you honestly tell me that you’d not barter your very soul to have a son of your own?”
“Of course I want a son, Ellen, and if it is not to be, there will be a great emptiness in my life. But I’ve had years to come to terms with it. As you yourself said, my love, I’ve not lived as a monk. I’ve had my share of bedmates, yet not one of them ever quickened with my seed. How likely is it that every one of those women was barren? It may not be God’s Will that I have a son.”
“I do not believe that. You deserve sons if any man does. I was so sure this time,” she said, in a voice barely audible above the surging rush of the falls, “so sure I was with child…” She gave him one swift, heart-wrenching glance, then looked away. “Llewelyn, what if I am barren? Another woman might…”
He marveled at her courage, for he knew what it had cost her to say that. He ran his fingers lightly along the curve of her cheek, and found her skin wet to his touch. “I cannot answer that, lass, no more than you can. Mayhap another woman could give me a son, mayhap not. But that brings us to the third unforeseen turn of events. When I sent Brother Gwilym to Montargis, I got more than I bargained for, Ellen. I did not expect to fall in love with my own wife.”
“I know you love me, Llewelyn. But is that enough? What if I cannot ever give you a son?”
“You give me joy, cariad, more joy than I’ve ever had in this life, or expect to find in the next.” He smiled, for he still found it easier to jest than to reveal secrets of the soul. “If it is true, as the Church claims, that a man who loves his wife with excessive passion is guilty of adultery, then I am sinning on such a scale that I’ll likely be atoning for all eternity.”
Ellen found herself smiling even as she blinked back tears. She could think of no promise extravagant enough, no vow sweeping enough to convey what she felt at that moment. She tried, though. “I may not be able to promise you a son, but this I can and do swear, that I shall devote my every waking hour to making you happy. You’ll have no regrets, beloved, not as long as I have breath in my body…”
And then she was laughing, laughing as she’d not have believed possible even a quarter hour ago, for he’d murmured, “Could I persuade you to pledge that upon a holy relic?”
Kissing her upturned face, tasting the laughter of her lips, breathing in the violet scent she’d long since tired of, but kept using because she knew he liked it, Llewelyn felt as if a burden had been lifted from them both. Mayhap now she’d no longer be haunted by dreams of empty cradles, mayhap she’d no longer flinch at sound of a baby’s wail. Mayhap now he could tell her of Elizabeth’s pregnancy.
“But I do not want you to give up all hope, my love,” he said quietly. “For all that we’ll be wed four years at Martinmas, we’ve only been sharing a bed for less than a twelvemonth. If we keep planting enough seeds, who knows what crop we might eventually harvest?”
Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck. She was taller than most women and they fit together well; he slid his hands under her mantle, almost able to span her waist with his fingers. She surprised him then, said in perfect Welsh, “Rydw i eisau cusan.”
Laughing, he did as she bade, gave her a probing, passionate kiss that lasted until they both were breathless. “Promise me,” he said, “that no matter what lies ahead for us, you’ll remember what I am about to say now. You hold my heart and I could not envision my world without you. I want a son, yes, but it is you I need, and that is something I’ve never said to any woman.”
“I promise,” she said softly, and he looked for a long moment into her face, until he was satisfied that she meant it.
“Come, cariad,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
25
Abereiddon, Wales
July 1280
Hugh returned to North Wales in mid-July, reaching Abereiddon soon after the turquoise twilight had begun to shade into the star-scattered dark of a summer night. The conversi—the lay brothers who worked the mountain granges of the Welsh Cistercian abbeys—were already abed. But light and laughter drifted from the open window of the guest hospice, and Hugh headed in that direction.
The door was ajar, and Hugh paused on the threshold to savor the sight before him, to savor his homecoming. The scene—so pleasing to Hugh—was not one to please their austere hosts, though, the somber Cistercians who sought rustic solitude, spiritual peace, and a Spartan life far from urban enticements and feminine wiles. The White Monks scorned cities as cesspools of corruption and sin. Nor did they welcome women—daughters of Eve—into their pristine domains, not even their Prince’s lady. Yet here in their own guest hospice were gathered those worldly temptations they’d chosen to shun, boisterous banter and clinking mead cups and soft female laughter.
A noisy dice game was in progress, to the inevitable accompaniment of rowdy jesting and good-natured squabbling; Hugh made a mental note to join in the fun after he’d reported to Lady Ellen. Not all the men in the hall were focusing upon the dice game. Nearby, Juliana was being besieged by the most persistent of her suitors, brothers who seemed vastly amused that they should be rivals for the same woman. Juliana appeared to be enjoying their joint courtship, laughing as they took turns whispering sweet nothings in her ear. But she was not likely to accept either one as a serious swain, although Hugh and Ellen wished she would, for Rhun and Rhys were both good lads, and Bran was nine years dead.
Shifting his gaze from Juliana, Hugh began to look for his lady, soon found her ensconced in a window-seat. She’d not yet noticed him, utterly intent upon the harp balanced on her knee and the man seated at her side. At Montargis, Hugh had often seen Ellen in just that pose, frowning over the harp that had been her betrothal gift from her Welsh Prince, a bittersweet keepsake of all she’d lost. It seemed miraculous to Hugh—even now—that those girlhood hopes should have been resurrected from the ashes of Evesham, that she should be sharing the window-seat and harp on this summer’s eve with Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Llewelyn had his arm around her waist, and as he showed her a new chord, their fingers brushed and then entwined upon the harp strings. Hugh stayed where he was, reluctant to intrude, for he knew such tranquil moments were hard to come by. It seemed to him that in Wales, trouble was always lurking in ambush, just down the road.
Mountain nights were often chill, even in July, and fire burned in the center hearth; smoke smudged the whitewashed walls, clung to clothes, watered eyes, and occasionally a puff or two would escape through the roof louvre out into the starlit sky. Caitlin had pulled a stool as close to the light as she could get without being singed. She was scowling down at the cloth draped across her lap, wielding her needle with such obvious distaste that Hugh could not help grinning. Caitlin’s aversion to the needlework at which even queens were expected to excel was almost as notorious as her unseemly penchant for solitude and cats and secrets. But the very idiosyncrasies that made her so suspect in other eyes were what endeared her to Hugh; he who valued integrity above all else could recognize it in any guise. Moreover, he took pleasure in Caitlin’s utter unpredictability; he never had a clue as to what was going on behind those leaf-green eyes of hers, never knew what to expect from her.
As he stepped into the hall, Hugh was met with a crescendo of barking. Ellen’s pampered pet led the charge, sprinting toward him, low-slung white belly scraping the floor rushes, for Hugh had managed to win what still eluded Llewelyn, the jealous little dog’s good will. The other dogs were in full tongue now, too: Llewelyn’s elegant greyhounds, and Sampson, his huge, stately wolfhound, and the stable dogs that sneaked into the hall every chance they got.
“Hugh!” Caitli
Hugh was under siege, backed up against the door, unable to break through the canine circle until Juliana sent Rhys and Rhun to his rescue. As they chased the stable curs outside, Llewelyn summoned his own well-trained dogs with a whistle, and Hugh joined Caitlin by the hearth, reaching into his mantle to reveal the real attraction, a kitten tucked into a woven pouch.
Caitlin gave a delighted cry. “It is as white as Phylip’s deer! Wherever did you find it?”
“At an inn in Dorsetshire. The innkeeper was going to drown her, and so I offered to take her.” Hugh smiled sheepishly, a little embarrassed by his own soft-heartedness. “She’s stone-deaf, but I figured you’d just see that as a challenge,” he said, depositing the tiny, spitting creature into Caitlin’s outstretched palms. With Ellen’s Hiraeth at his heels, he then crossed the hall, knelt by the window-seat.
Llewelyn at once waved him up, and he reached again into his mantle, this time drawing out several rolled sheets of parchment. “This is for you, my lady. Lord Amaury asked me to thank you both for your generosity. He was especially pleased by the books, marveled that you had been able to find so many, for he said he well knows books are scarcer than hen’s teeth, and as costly a luxury as sugar.”
Ellen was running her fingers over her brother’s letter, but she seemed hesitant to untie the cord. “Tell me how he fares, Hugh—the truth,” she added, needlessly, for Hugh could not lie to her.
“There must be days when he despairs,” he said, feeling his way with care. “But he is not a man to admit to them.”